


I Feel Your Finger On My Trigger

by mickeym



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-22
Updated: 2008-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, their guns get a different use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Feel Your Finger On My Trigger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nu_breed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/gifts).



"On your knees. Hands behind your back."

He pushes, and Sam stumbles, sinking awkwardly onto his knees. It's hard with the blindfold; Sam isn't accustomed to not seeing, and he doesn't like it. Doesn't like being this vulnerable.

But he can't deny the little curl of heat it generates, either.

It must show on his face, or in the way his breath hitches when large hands tighten in his hair; in the surge of arousal when Dean whispers in his ear, voice low and rough, whiskey and honey sliding over him.

"I know what you want." Cool metal rubs over Sam's cheek; traces over his jaw line. "What you need."

Sam whimpers, the sound catching in his throat like it's too big to get out or swallow down.

"No," he whispers, shivers rippling through him.

"Oh, yeah. I know what you need, Sammy." Dean rubs the metal across Sam's mouth, outlining his lips. "Feels good, doesn't it? Cold…hard…"

"Dean. P-please." He hates the catch in his voice; hates that Dean's right. He does want it. Needs it. 

He wishes he could see, but he's kind of glad he can't. Can't see Dean’s face -- eyes dilated, pupils spread black with only a ring of green, hot with desire.

"Taste it, Sam. You know you want to. _I_ know you want to." Dean rubs it -- fucking _gun_ \-- against Sam's mouth again, the metal soaking up the heat of his body. Not cool any longer; instead it's warm as he is. 

No, not as warm; if it was it'd be burning hot, branding him. Melting into him.

"Taste it." 

No room for argument; Dean presses the gun against Sam's mouth, forces the tip between his lips. Harsh metal meets his tongue, the bitter, heavy taste as solid as the pulse thudding in his chest, in his head, in his dick. 

"Suck it, Sammy. Lemme see how much you want it." Dean pushes a little harder, presses the tip against Sam's bottom lip. "Tongue out, taste it. Go on, just like you'd suck my dick. Give the best head ever, dontcha, little brother? Lick it, nice and slow, taste it all over. Show me how you're gonna do me."

The words burn their way into Sam's brain; slither down his spine and along his nerves. He licks over the end of the barrel, hard and slick against his lip, over his tongue. He doesn't have to close his eyes -- the blindfold makes it dark enough, folded over and tied securely -- but he shuts them anyway. It’s another layer of protection between him and the world as he flicks his tongue across the opening of the gun. 

"God, yeah." Dean groans and the heat tightens low in Sam's belly, dick throbbing behind his zipper. "Should see how you look. You're hot for it, aren't you? Show me, Sam. Show me how much you want it."

It's not like sucking Dean. Sucking dick. Wrong shape, wrong flavor, wrong everything. Warm from exposure to his skin, but not skin-warm. Hard and unyielding, stretching his mouth, bruising the soft skin when Dean pushes harder. Further. 

Sam whines around the barrel; wonders if the safety’s on, if Dean unloaded it. He can't remember if he heard it, Dean emptying the last chambered round; can't remember now if he saw Dean pop the clip. The heat simmering in his belly explodes into a fireball that streaks through him.

"That's it, suck it, Sammy. Suck it, good little cocksucker."

He does, licking and sucking at the barrel like he can't get enough. It's not Dean but it is, because Dean's gun has always been an extension of him. 

The sound of a zipper grating open prickles over his skin, and Sam opens his eyes behind the blindfold. His face is wet, spit slick over his chin, dripping down to his t-shirt; the front of his jeans are damp where his dick's leaking. Soft-hard heat brushes against his cheek smearing sticky-wet over it, and Sam turns his head away from the gun, bruising his flesh, to _Dean_ , warm, salty, tang of soap and just a hint of gun oil. 

The blindfold catches on Sam's hair when Dean pulls it off, sending zings of pain mingling with the pleasure. He blinks against the bright -- only lamplight, but it's loud after the quiet of the dark. Dean swims into focus, eyes hot and hungry as Sam moves between Dean's dick and the gun he's still holding.

Salt to metal and back again, so different, so good, both dangerous and addictive. Sam shudders and shifts, wanting to touch himself, rub his cock to soothe the ache.

"Not yet," Dean growls, catching the movement. "No touching. I'll get you off, Sammy, if you’re good. If you do me good." He rocks his hips forward, back, rubs himself over Sam's mouth, against his cheek. 

"Just me," he mutters hoarsely, and turns Sam's head with pressure from the gun against his jaw. "Suck me." 

The gun is a warm, firm caress against Sam's jaw, stroking up and down, just enough pressure for Sam to feel it every time he opens his mouth; every time he swallows. Dean tugs on handfuls of Sam's hair, guiding him, holding him, keeping him still while he fucks into Sam's mouth.

"God, your _mouth_." The words are quiet, barely more than grunts, and Sam feels Dean harden more, swelling before he comes, thick spurts of bitter salt that catch on Sam’s tongue, his lips, his cheek when Dean pulls away. He rubs it into Sam's skin; paints Sam with his come until all Sam can taste smell see feel is _Dean_. Always Dean.

Then Dean's dropping to his knees in front of Sam, one hand tugging at Sam's fly until the zipper gives and the button opens. The gun is so warm, almost hot, soaked in Sam's body heat, and Dean presses it against the hard, throbbing line of Sam's dick, still tucked behind his shorts. 

"Fuck it, fuck against it, get off Sammy--"

He rubs it up and down against Sam's erection, pushing, pressing, holding it steady for Sam to move against. 

It's too much and not enough, Sam wants Dean's hand or his mouth, wants to feel living heat between his legs, cupping holding tugging pulling--

He comes against the gun, bare metal to hot skin when Dean pulls his shorts down at the last minute. Streaks of sticky heat paint the metal in pulses, splashes of jizz landing on Dean's hand and wrist. He raises the gun to his mouth and licks at it, at Sam's come smeared over it, and licks it clean before leaning in to kiss Sam’s mouth.

~fin~


End file.
